Chapter Twenty-One
What a wild thing to request.
I’m still reeling after our visit to Ashemere.
Upon our return, Ryc and I deliberated for hours. He’s torn—unsure whether he should reveal Rose’s whereabouts to Rowen. In the end, it would grant Rowen the peace he’s searching for…
But Ryc fully believes it will come at the cost of Rowen marching an army north. Terrible timing considering Vaelyn seeks to push the Sovereign Kings toward any reason for war.
Telling Rowen about Rose feels damning.
Choosing not to tell him feels worse.
Withholding the information is temporary. Rowen deserves to know. Rose may no longer be his mate, but Netharis’ solution in keeping her alive isn’t a solution at all.
It’s a burden.
One designed to benefit the hells.
She’s become Sabien’s thrall—believes herself in love with the ancient vampire. When Ryc said he and Morgana hunted mates, I didn’t stop to think about the possibility of a Sovereign King losing theirs.
The never-ending spiral stone stairs leading down to the stronghold are narrow and steep. The growing cool of the smooth, gray brick wall beneath my trailing fingers draws my thoughts to the present as I continue in my descent.
With the sudden torrential rain today, Ryc requested our sparring lesson take place in one of the training rooms below.
It’s where the guards usually train, its walls warded to ensure errant magic is contained.
Those imprisoned have cells down here. They’re either awaiting trial or awaiting punishment—which never includes death, always some form of rehabilitation.
Eve’s sentence to join Celesta’s devotees serves as an example.
It’s hard to determine if Ryc’s sanctity for life is borne of genuine compassion or naivety. Or… perhaps it’s a learned reluctance to bolster the hells. Regardless, his request comes as somewhat strange considering rain has never stopped our outdoor sparring before.
Ignoring the creeping burn in my calves and thighs, I press on, throwing my braided hair over my shoulder. Oraphia was kind enough to ensure it stays out of my eyes for the lesson. She and Raevi were in my quarters this morning, and as per her usual nature, Raevi remained skittish and quiet.
I don’t know how to approach her.
Or whether I should.
I have to admit, part of me is envious.
Raevi possesses the ability to know exactly what Nektos laid out for her. She could learn exactly who she’s meant to become, what she’ll be capable of, and where she fits into this world. At the same time, would that not steal a person’s sense of self? Or their want to establish one?
Raevi is irrefutable proof Fate isn’t simply a concept, but rather unavoidable. Regardless of choice.
Upon further reflection, perhaps I shouldn’t envy her at all.
I heave a sigh.
Almost to the bottom.
Two hundred more stairs to go—I think.
I’ve lost count.
In the early days of my return to the living realm, Eve and I ventured through the castle, exploring the halls and hidden rooms. We discovered an abundance of interesting things—an art studio with unfinished paintings, tucked away libraries filled with scores of sheet music, and of course, the stronghold.
We ventured down here, and on our return Eve counted the stairs along the way.
One thousand six hundred and sixteen steps.
I slow as a guard ascending rounds the stairs below. She takes notice and flattens herself against the wall, the metal of her armor scratching against the stone. Bright blue eyes set in a round human face meet mine.
“Good day, Lady Ves,” she greets with a small nod as I pass.
I offer a silent, close-lipped smile in return.
Another who can’t ferry and is forced to take the stairs.
At least being able to reach the various floors and levels of Castle Erus is possible for its inhabitants who cannot ferry, unlike the Tower. Without the ability to ferry or an escort with the appropriate permissions, layers are locked off.
Here, I can explore everything on foot. As tedious as that may be.
What I would give to be able to ferry right now.
Should I ever regain my innate, I’m going to spend eternity ferrying.
Everywhere.
Across the castle? Ferry.
Across the room? Ferry.
A hair out of reach? Ferry.
I push aside the growing idea of throwing myself down the rest of the stairs as voices reach me. Deep shouts, grunts, and laughter reverberate through the stairwell, quickly followed by the rippling sensation of innate use racing over my skin.
Eve’s laughter sounds and she says something, the clarity of the words lost in the distance. From the sounds of things, Eve and Cyran have already started their sparring. And judging by the wash of tingles, they’re using their innate magic.
After what feels like five centuries spiraling the descending stairs, I plant my feet upon the floor of the stronghold’s main corridor. It’s a dimly lit network of twisting, underground halls lined with cells—many of which are warded shut.
One door, somewhere down here, has posted guards.
The cell containing my soul crystal, the sophont, and the rest of the things I brought into this realm.
Ahead on the right, there’s an open door. Bright silver light pours through the door and spills into the hall. It’s from there Eve’s laughter and jeers stem.
Walking into the room, I’m greeted with racks of weapons and shields along the small hall leading deeper into the room. Axes, swords—all shapes and lengths—glaives, morningstars, halberds… there are enough to outfit a small militia here.
The hall opens into the room and Ryc’s laughter pulls my attention toward its center.
And my eyes widen.
He and Cyran are caught in a grapple, Ryc laughing as Cyran attempts to outmaneuver him. My jaw drops as Cyran mutters a few curses and starts laughing himself.
Impossible.
The fae not only laughs, but curses?
They continue to wrestle, shirtless, upon the mat. With clingy leather pants, bare feet, and disheveled hair, their muscles ripple in all their strength and glory. I’ve walked into less favorable sights.
I stare, unnoticed by them or Eve who stands perched against the wall with her arms crossed on the far left of the room—well out of their way. Thank the gods their attention is elsewhere, otherwise they too would understand I am, without a doubt, a demon.
Pulling away my lingering stare and tucking away my rapidly devolving thoughts involving Ryc and Cyran and myself, I wander to Eve, and lean against the wall. The vibration of the warded walls shimmers against my back, a gentle reminder of its existence.
She greets me with a lift of her chin and a quickly flashed smile, her eyes focused on the fight.
“Your fae is impressive,” she says, leaning toward me to bump her shoulder against mine. “He fights like a demon.”
Suspicion snakes through me. “Did you…” I laugh, “just compliment Ryc?”
She jabs an elbow into my upper arm. “I know when to commend someone’s skill and he’s skilled. Even if he’s insufferable otherwise.”
Cyran breaks free of Ryc’s hold, flinging himself upright. Ryc is quick to his feet and not wasting any time, Cyran launches an assault aimed for Ryc’s ribs. The first swing misses, but the second lands.
“Are they supposed to be using innates?” I ask, watching.
“You felt that?” Eve asks with a smirk. “No. Supposed to be physical only. But your fae doesn’t follow his own rules. He blinded Cyran. That’s how he got him on the mat.”
Ryc fights like a demon indeed.
A wild thrill at the thought sparks through my chest.
“I wager he wins this,” Eve says with a huffed laugh. “Cyran’s too honor bound to skirt—let alone break—rules.”
Then perhaps this is a needed lesson.
“Cyran may not break rules, but I will,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Ice blue eyes slide in my direction as a dark brow quirks. “Are you suggesting rigging the match?”
I smile. “A demon would never.”
“It would be gratifying to see King Killjoy humbled,” she muses, turning back to the grappling pair. “Even if it’s for all of ten minutes.”
Reaching for the golden rope between Ryc and me, I’m immediately hit with the stone wall of his concentration. The draw between us blooms and I resist the sudden urge to seek his embrace.
“When we discussed the idea of spectating, I didn’t realize being the spectator was on offer.” I send the thought through, a wicked grin curling my lips.
Ryc’s head snaps in my direction, golden eyes locking with mine in a heartbeat. In the seconds Ryc’s left open, Cyran—unaware of any interference—sweeps Ryc’s feet from under him.
It pulls Ryc back into the fight and they both crash to the mat, Ryc roaring with laughter.
“Siren!” he bellows.
Cyran’s hands fly to his chest—a surrendering gesture—and he rolls onto his side away from Ryc. Honor bound fae indeed. He and Ryc pull themselves upright, Ryc giving me the glare of all glares… fighting the smile on his face.
Eve, vibrant with her own laughter, jams me with her elbow again. “I know what I saw, Cyran wins. You’ve crossed bounds.” She juts her chin in their direction.
Ryc scoffs before peering at the mat below him, discovering himself seated quite squarely upon the white line of the circle boundary. He heaves a sigh, raking a hand through his hair as he laughs.
“Siren,” he repeats.
“Your Majesty,” Cyran replies, dipping his head in a respectful bow, his chest heaving.
“No, no, Cyran,” Ryc laughs as he slings his arms over his pitched knees. “Claim your win. It’s well earned. I was calling the demon a siren.” He levels a smoldering glare in my direction. “She knows I’m easily distracted by her song.”
“I wasn’t singing,” I counter with a shrug, folding my arms across my chest. “Simply… spectating.”
“I’m convinced you enjoy tormenting me,” his amused tone rings through my mind.
“Your convictions are correct,” I reply, smiling.
“It seems Lady Ves is eager to start today’s lesson,” Cyran says as he rises to stand. He offers Ryc a hand and helps him to his feet.